Tough Love
by Redhead Maniac
Summary: "You're so bad, but I want a taste.. A little taste you have, come on over, right now, take me down — I want your poison." Mr. Gold/Daryl Dixon modern-day AU. DON'T ASK, HALF THE BLAME FOR THIS IS ON MY FRIEND.


**A/N: ****this is written for my dear friend Lamblia and started as a gif-reply-exchange in the comments. Then somehow, it escalated and turned into _this_. The header for this is also drawn by her ^^**

Daryl sits on a ratty old wooden stool in the kitchen, dim morning light coming through the dust-covered glass of the window making it enough to see in the small room. He gnaws on his lower lip, lost in thoughts, the tiny pieces of dry skin coming off with a sting and leaving shallow pink gashes, the steam rising slow and steady from his cup of black coffee which sits forgotten on the table in front of him. He won't ever admit to the conflicted emotions running through his head, so he tries to stomp them — to no avail. He just can't shake off this feeling of _something_, which came with the realization that the idiot left without as much as his usual "See you then, dearie". Daryl snorts at himself in anger. Really, what did he expect? A fucking note with sweet declarations and flowers and a served breakfast? The Dixon blindly watches the few people scattering for work early on the street four stores below. He's got nowhere to be today, as far as he's concerned, and it's only six AM. He doesn't have to be up, but he is anyway — old habits die hard, especially the ones rooted from childhood. His Da used to say that if you don't wake with the sun, you might as well not wake at all. The food wasn't gonna hunt itself, and there were more chores at the farm than one could handle.

He's fucking angry, because it's easier to be angry, it's something he can understand and deal with — unlike the other crap. And so he is angry, but mostly at himself. Sure, it's been a rough week and all, but he didn't have to fall asleep like a goddamn baby after.._that_. The worst part is he didn't hear the man wake up or even stir, much less get up and leave the bed. And Dixon _always_ wakes up from the slightest shift of the body.

— Stupid fuckin' idiot, — Daryl's not sure who he's referring to: himself or Mr. Gold. Maybe both.

He doesn't know how he got himself into this mess, and it leaves him so frustrated he wants to scream, which is a completely inappropriate thing to do.

This is not supposed to happen. This is not what he's supposed to be doing: sitting at the table, alone in the kitchen at 6.13 AM, drinking bitter black coffee and thinking about _feelings_ towards some asshole who sauntered into his life two months ago and left him bruised and beaten every other week since then. He isn't even into that shit. _He wasn't_. It's so sickening and twisted it makes him want to gag, but instead the redneck inhales and takes a big gulp of coffee. He needs a cigarette, he really does, and he's all out. Maybe he does need to go outside after all. As Dixon makes an indignant sniff and rises to his feet, he winces at the whiplash of pain across his back. He doesn't have to look to know it's black and blue — it's always been this way after his recurrent encounters with Gold, long stretches of skin not covered with scars a mix of the wildest colours, some of them new, some old and fading. He still can't help a shudder of satisfaction, which only makes his anger grow, like a vicious beast awakened from within. Daryl stalks back into the bedroom, dumping the half-empty mug into the sink as he goes, and unceremoniously throws open the wardrobe doors, fishing for his daily attire.

He decides a grey T-shirt, washed out jeans and a jacket will do.

It's almost two when he decides to stop for coffee at a local brewery shop. The small place is quiet enough and has three tables sitting outside, which is just perfect for his smoking self. What he doesn't expect, however, is to see a man occupying one by the curb.

— Why hello there, dearie. Long time no see, — there's a twinkle of amusement in Gold's eyes, his long, deceptively delicate fingers intertwined atop the golden handle of the black cane. Daryl almost takes a step back in instinct, instantly feeling his hackles rise.

— What are _you_ doing here?! — it comes out more of a growl than an angry shout as Daryl stomps his way over, stopping just short of Mr. Gold's table and keeping his wary gaze on the man, his pale blue eyes shutting to slits.

— You know, I do happen to live in the neighborhood.. — the easy smile on the pawnbroker's lips makes Dixon grind his teeth and huff in mild annoyance.

— Yeah, right. I've been passing here for as long as I remember, and I've never seen you. Recently changed your address? — Daryl mocks, quickly taking in the sight of the man. A fine pinstripe charcoal suit with a pale blue shirt underneath, a fancy tie, patent-leather shoes, a pair of expensive sunglasses and a thin, black scarf hanging loosely around his neck. Yet still, somehow, the man doesn't look out of place at the common cafe in downtown Boston area.

— Nah, so much anger, young man. Have a seat, I don't bite. — Dixon swears there's a shimmer of something poisonously sinister in those brown eyes and hesitates a minute, before pulling out a chair with a rather loud screech and settling onto it. He should have walked away, snorting some obscenity and telling the man to keep to his own damn business, but there's something that stops him, and he's lured. He finds himself in this situation every time they meet — each muscle in his body tenses and he wants to bark his head off and run, as far away from this abominable freak as possible, yet he ends up doing just the opposite. He wants to know many things, the questions swirling in his head driving him crazy, but he ain't no pussy — he doesn't need to know what's this thing between them is called, or why he felt the slightest twinge of sadness when he didn't find the man by his side in the morning. And Gold sure as fuck doesn't own him an explanation to either of that.

Still, he wonders.

— You wish to ask me something? — the redneck snaps his head up, directing a menacing glance at his opponent. The fuck, does he read minds?

— No.

— Are you sure? You look like you might want to.

— Jus' shut the fuck up, will ya? — he throws angrily and rubs a hand on his brow, grunting at the forming headache. Fuck, he should just leave the prick be and head home. He did everything he needed since he got out of the apartment in the first place: paid the few bills he owed, dropped by the garage to work on his bike and finally bought that pack of cigarettes now resting in his back pocket.

Gold tisks at him, motioning with his finger, and as Daryl's about to snap, the waitress comes over, saving the little joint from disaster.

— One cup of camomile tea for my friend, please. — Mr. Gold doesn't seem to miss a beat as he smiles up the girl and she takes off, nodding in understanding. — So what was it we were discussing? Ah yes, that question of yours.

What is it about this man that makes him want to break his neck? Daryl isn't sure if it's the all-knowing looks he gives like charity, the quick wits he throws about or the fact that he orders random shit without his permission.

— I don't do camomile.

— Why-ever not? I find it soothes the nerves so finely. Try, you sure will like it.

When the blond girl puts the cup on the table, he wants to throw it at him. He glares some more instead.

— Come on, drink. It tastes nice.

Later Daryl will rationalize the hell out of his actions, saying that the herbs might've helped with his headache, or that he was curious of a new taste.

Nevertheless, he grudgingly takes the white cup in his hands and almost drops it, letting out a hiss.

— Fuck!

— It's tea, Mr. Dixon. It's supposed to be hot.

— I know! — Daryl feels the heat rising up his neck, and he really hopes that it doesn't creep further. Stupid fucking men and their offers of camomile tea.

Gold seems rather comfortable in his seat, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp, a single digit rubbing on the golden handle. The redneck's eyes are drawn towards it as he takes a sip of his, rather admittedly — good, tea.

— Why'd you leave? — fuck! He almost curses aloud, not believing the bullshit that slips past his lips.

Gold's eyebrows rise ever so slightly and the corners of his mouth quirk up into a pleased smile.

— Wasn't so hard, was it?

— Tastes like shit.. — Daryl grumbles and takes another sip, tilting his head down and avoiding even the possibility of eye-contact. He feels bare, vulnerable now that he let the question slip.

— If I answer, — Gold poises carefully, — will you perhaps be joining me for dinner tonight?

He almost spits his drink, covering it up with a disbelieving "pfft".

— Do I look like a girl to ya?

— I never said tha'.

Dixon mulls over the proposal for a few stretched heartbeats, and in the end he decides if that's what it's gonna take to shut up the voices in his head?

— Fine. I'll go.

— That'a boy! — Gold's face is split with joy as he clasps his hands together, the cane left resting on the side of his chair. — Now as for my end of the bargain: a man's got to settle his business. What I do believe you're asking, however, is why I left without notice?

Daryl grunts an affirmation, his rough finger circling the rim of the cup, never lifting his head up to look at the man.

— It seemed appropriate to let you rest.— that's all he says. He doesn't mention the fatigue settled in Daryl's shoulders, or the dark shadows under his eyes. He doesn't point at the obvious _meltdown_ his body has driven itself into, which finally resulted in Daryl knocking out the first chance he got. The first chance his body deemed acceptable, the first chance he felt sa..

_No._

— Ok.

The broker gives him a look, prompting for a more complete answer.

— I said okay, I get it, — Daryl bites out angrily. There it is again, the anger, bubbling up and pushing at the seams, demanding to be let out.

— Alrighty then, — Mr. Gold starts to get up, placing a few bills on the table. — I will see you at 7, then. Be sharp.

— You gunna pick me up? — Dixon fumbles with his cup, glaring at the man out of the corner of his eye.

— I thought you were no girl, Mr. Dixon? — the broker's voice is rich with humor, but God only knows at Daryl's expense. — Meet me here.

And as the man unhurriedly walks away with a pronounced limp, Daryl squeezes his eyes shut and bangs a fist on the table.

— Fuck!

What did he get himself into?

Again.


End file.
